Giovanni's Room Page 4

'À la votre,' he said.

  'À la votre.' We drank.

  'You are an American?' he asked at last.

  'Yes,' I said. From New York.'

  'Ah! I am told that New York is very beautiful. Is it more beautiful than Paris?'

  'Oh, no,' I said, 'no city is more beautiful than Paris—'

  'It seems the very suggestion that one could be is enough to make you very angry,' grinned Giovanni. Torgive me. I was not trying to be heretical.' Then, more soberly and as though to appease me, Tou must like Paris very much.'

  'I like New York, too,' I said, uncomfortably aware that my voice had a defensive ring, but New York is very beautiful in a very different way.'

  He frowned. 'In what way?'

  'No one,' I said, 'who has never seen it can possibly imagine it. It's very high and new and electric—exciting.' I paused. It's hard to describe. It's very—twentieth century.'

  'You find that Paris is not of this century?' he asked with a smile.

  His smile made me feel a little foolish. 'Well,' I said, 'Paris is old, is many centuries. You feel, in Paris, all the time gone by. That isn't what you feel in New York—' He was smiling. I stopped.

  What do you feel in New York?' he asked.

  'Perhaps you feel,' I told him, 'all the time to come. There's such power there, everything is in such movement. You can't help wondering— I can't help wondering—what it will all be like—many years from now.'

  'Many years from now? When we are dead and New York is old?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'When everyone is tired, when the world—for Americans—is not so new.'

  'I don't see why the world is so new for Americans,' said Giovanni. 'After all, you are all merely emigrants. And you did not leave Europe so very long ago.'

  'The ocean is very wide,' I said. 'We have led different lives than you; things have happened to us there which have never happened here. Surely you can understand that this would make us a different people?'

  'Ah! If it had only made you a different people 1' he laughed. 'But it seems to have turned you into another species. You are not, are you, on another planet? For I suppose that would explain everything.'

  'I admit,' I said with some heat—for I do not like to be laughed at—'that we may sometimes give the impression that we think we are. But we are not on another planet, no. And neither, my friend, are you.'

  He grinned again. I will not,' he said, 'argue that most unlucky fact.'

  We were silent for a moment. Giovanni moved to serve several people at either end of the bar. Guillaume and Jacques were still talking. Guillaume seemed to be recounting one of his interminable anecdotes, anecdotes which invariably pivoted on the hazards of business or the hazards of love, and Jacques' mouth was stretched in a rather painful grin. I knew that he was dying to get back to the bar.

  Giovanni placed himself before me again and began wiping the bar with a damp cloth. The Americans are funny. You have a funny sense of time—or perhaps you have no sense of time at all, I can't tell. Time always sounds like a parade chez vous—a triumphant parade, like armies with banners entering a town. As though, with enough time, and that would not need to be so very much for Americans, n'est-ce pas?' and he smiled, giving me a mocking look, but I said nothing. 'Well then,' he continued, 'as though with enough time and all that fearful energy and virtue you people have, everything will be settled, solved, put in its place. And when I say everything,' he added, grimly, 'I mean all the serious, dreadful things, like pain and death and love, in which you Americans do not believe.'

  'What makes you think we don't? And what do you believe?'

  'I don't believe in this nonsense about time. Time is just common, it's like water for a fish. Everybody's in this water, nobody gets out of it, or if he does the same thing happens to him that happens to the fish, he dies. And you know what happens in this water, time? The big fish eat the little fish. That's all. The big fish eat the little fish and the ocean doesn't care.'

  'Oh, please,' I said. I don't believe that. Time's hot water and we're not fish and you can choose to be eaten and also not to eat—not to eat,' I added quickly, turning a little red before his delighted and sardonic smile, 'the little fish, of course.'

  'To choose!' cried Giovanni, turning his face away from me and speaking, it appeared, to an invisible ally who had been eavesdropping on this conversation all along. To choose!' He turned to me again. 'Ah, you are really an American. J'adore votre enthousiasme!'

  'I adore yours,' I said, politely, 'though it seems to be a blacker brand than mine.'

  'Anyway,' he said mildly, 'I don't see what you can do with little fish except eat them. What else are they good for?'

  'In my country,' I said, feeling a subtle war within me as I said it, 'the little fish seem to have gotten together and are nibbling at the body of the whale.'

  'That will not make them whales,' said Giovanni. 'The only result of all that nibbling will be that there will no longer be any grandeur anywhere, not even at the bottom of the sea.'

  'Is that what you have against us? That we're not grand?'

  He smiled—smiled like someone who, faced with the total inadequacy of the opposition, is prepared to drop the argument. 'Peut-être.'

  'You people are impossible,' I said. 'You're the ones who killed grandeur off, right here in this city, with paving stones. Talk about little fish— !' He was grinning. I stopped.

  'Don't stop,' he said, still grinning. I am listening.'

  I finished my drink. 'You people dumped all this merde on us,' I said, sullenly, 'and now you say we're barbaric because we stink.'

  My sullenness delighted him. 'You're charming,' he said. 'Do you always speak like this?'

  'No,' I said, and looked down. 'Almost never.'

  There was something in him of the coquette. I am flattered then,' he said, with a sudden, disconcerting gravity, which contained, nevertheless, the very faintest hint of mockery.

  'And you,' I said, finally, 'have you been here long? Do you like Paris?'

  He hesitated a moment and then grinned, suddenly looking rather boyish and shy. It's cold in the winter,' he said. I don't like that. And Parisians—I do not find them so very friendly, do you?' He did not wait for my answer. They are not like the people I knew when I was younger. In Italy we are friendly, we dance and sing and make love—but these people,' and he looked out over the bar, and then at me, and finished his Coca-Cola, 'these people, they are cold, I do not understand them.'

  'But the French say,' I teased, 'that the Italians are too fluid, too volatile, have no sense of measure—'

  'Measure!' cried Giovanni, 'ah, these people and their measure! They measure the gram, the centimeter, these people, and they keep piling all the little scraps they save, one on top of the other, year in and year out, all in the stocking or under the bed—and what do they get out of all this measure? A country which is falling to pieces, measure by measure, before their eyes. Measure. I do not like to offend your ears by saying all the things I am sure these people measure before they permit themselves any act whatever. May I offer you a drink now,' he asked suddenly, 'before the old man comes back? Who is he? Is he your uncle?'

  I did not know whether the word 'uncle' was being used euphemistically or not. I felt a very urgent desire to make my position clear but I did not know how to go about it. I laughed. 'No,' I said, lie is not my uncle. He is just somebody I know.'

  Giovanni looked at me. And this look made me feel that no one in my life had ever looked at me directly before. 1 hope he is not very dear to you,' he said, with a smile, because I think he is silly. Not a bad man, you understand-just a little silly.'

  'Perhaps,' I said, and at once felt like a traitor. He's not bad,' I added quickly, 'he's really a pretty nice guy.' That's not true, either, I thought, he's far from being a nice guy. 'Anyway,' I said, 'he's certainly not very dear to me,' and felt again, at once, this strange tightening in my chest and wondered at the sound of my voice.

  Carefully now, Giovann
i poured my drink. 'Vive l'Amérique,' he said.

  Thank you,' I said, and lifted my glass, 'vive le vieux continent'

  We were silent for a moment.

  'Do you come in here often?' asked Giovanni suddenly.

  'No,' I said, 'not very often.'

  'But you will come,' he teased, with a wonderful, mocking light on his face, 'more often now?'

  I stammered: 'Why?'

  'Ah!' cried Giovanni. 'Don't you know when you have made a friend?'

  I knew I must look foolish and that my question was foolish too: 'So soon?'

  'Why no,' he said, reasonably, and looked at his watch, 'we can wait another hour if you like. We can become friends then. Or we can wait until closing time. We can become friends then. Or we can wait until tomorrow, only that means that you must come in here tomorrow and perhaps you have something else to do.' He put his watch away and leaned both elbows on the bar. 'Tell me,' he said, 'what is this thing about time? Why is it better to be late than early? People are always saying, we must wait, we must wait. What are they waiting for?'

  'Well,' I said, feeling myself being led by Giovanni into deep and dangerous water, 'I guess people wait in order to make sure of what they feel.'

  'In order to make sure!' He turned again to that invisible ally and laughed again. I was beginning, perhaps, to find his phantom a little unnerving but the sound of his laughter in that airless tunnel was the most incredible sound. It's clear that you are a true philosopher.' He pointed a finger at my heart. 'And when you have waited—has it made you sure?'

  For this I could simply summon no answer. From the dark, crowded center of the bar someone called 'Garçon!' and he moved away from me, smiling. Tou can wait now. And tell me how sure you have become when I return.'

  And he took his round metal tray and moved out into the crowd. I watched him as he moved. And then I watched their faces, watching him. And then I was afraid. I knew that they were watching, had been watching both of us. They knew that they had witnessed a beginning and now they would not cease to watch until they saw the end. It had taken some time but the tables had been turned; now I was in the zoo, and they were watching.

  I stood at the bar for quite a while alone, for Jacques had escaped from Guillaume but was now involved, poor man, with two of the knife-blade boys. Giovanni came back for an instant and winked.

  'Are you sure?'

  'You win. You're the philosopher.'

  'Oh, you must wait some more. You do not yet know me well enough to say such a thing.'

  And he filled his tray and disappeared again.

  Now someone whom I had never seen before came out of the shadows toward me. It looked like a mummy or a zombie—this was the first, overwhelming impression—of something walking after it had been put to death. And it walked, really, like someone who might be sleepwalking or like those figures in slow motion one sometimes sees on the screen. It carried a glass, it walked on its toes, the flat hips moved with a dead, horrifying lasciviousness. It seemed to make no sound; this was due to the roar of the bar, which was like the roaring of the sea, heard at night, from far away. It glittered in the dim fight; the thin, black hair was violent with oil, combed forward, hanging in bangs; the eyelids gleamed with mascara, the mouth raged with lipstick. The face was white and thoroughly bloodless with some kind of foundation cream; it stank of powder and a gardenia-like perfume. The shirt, open coquettishly to the navel, revealed a hairless chest and a silver crucifix; the shirt was covered with round, paper-thin wafers, red and green and orange and yellow and blue, which stormed in the light and made one feel that the mummy might, at any moment, disappear in flame. A red sash was around the waist, the clinging pants were a surprisingly sombre grey. He wore buckles on his shoes.

  I was not sure that he was coming towards me, but I could not take my eyes away. He stopped before me, one hand on his hip, looked me up and down, and smiled. He had been eating garlic and his teeth were very bad. His hands, I noticed, with an unbelieving shock, were very large and strong.

  'Eh bien,' he said, 'il te plaît?'

  'Comment?' I said.

  I really was not sure I had heard him right, though the bright, bright eyes, looking, it seemed, at something amusing within the recess of my skull, did not leave much room for doubt.

  'You like him—the barman?'

  I did not know what to do or say. It seemed impossible to hit him; it seemed impossible to get angry. It did not seem real, he did not seem real. Besides—no matter what I said, those eyes would mock me with it. I said, as drily as I could:

  'How does that concern you?'

  'But it concerns me not at all, darling. Je m'en fou.'

  Then please get the hell away from me.'

  He did not move at once, but smiled at me again. 'Il est dangereux, tu sais. And for a boy like you—he is very dangerous.'

  I looked at him. I almost asked him what he meant. 'Go to hell,' I said, and turned my back.

  'Oh, no,' he said—and I looked at him again. He was laughing, showing all his teeth—there were not many, 'Oh, no,' he said, I go not to hell,' and he clutched his crucifix with one large hand. 'But you, my dear friend—I fear that you shall burn in a very hot fire.' He laughed again. 'Oh, such fire!' He touched his head. 'Here.' And he writhed, as though in torment. 'Everywhere' And he touched his heart. 'And here.' And he looked at me with malice and mockery and something else; he looked at me as though I were very far away. 'Oh, my poor friend, so young, so strong, so handsome—will you not buy me a drink?'

  'Va te faire foutre.'

  His face crumpled in the sorrow of infants and of very old men—the sorrow, also, of certain, aging actresses who were renowned in their youth for their fragile, childlike beauty. The dark eyes narrowed in spite and fury and the scarlet mouth turned down like the mask of tragedy. 'T'aura du chagrin,' he said. 'You will be very unhappy. Remember that I told you so.'

  And he straightened, as though he were a princess and moved, flaming, away through the crowd.

  Then Jacques spoke, at my elbow. 'Everyone in the bar,' he said, 'is talking about how beautifully you and the barman have hit it off.' He gave me a radiant and vindictive smile. 'I trust there has been no confusion?'

  I looked down at him. I wanted to do something to his cheerful, hideous, worldly face which would make it impossible for him ever again to smile at anyone the way he was smiling at me. Then I wanted to get out of this bar, out into the air, perhaps to find Hella, my suddenly so sorely menaced girl.

  'There's been no confusion,' I snapped. 'Don't you go getting confused, either.'

  'I think I can safely say,' said Jacques, 'that I have scarcely ever been less confused than I am at this moment.' He had stopped smiling; he gave me a look which was dry, bitter, and impersonal. 'And, at the risk of losing forever your so remarkably candid friendship, let me tell you something. Confusion is a luxury which only the very, very young can possibly afford and you are not that young anymore.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' I said. 'Let's have another drink.'

  I felt that I had better get drunk. Now Giovanni went behind the bar again and winked at me. Jacques' eyes never left my face. I turned rudely from him and faced the bar again. He followed me.

  'The same,' said Jacques.

  'Certainly,' said Giovanni, 'that's the way to do it.' He fixed our drinks. Jacques paid. I suppose I did not look too well, for Giovanni shouted at me playfully, 'Eh? Are you drunk already?'

  I looked up and smiled. Tou know how Americans drink,' I said. 1 haven't even started yet.'

  'David is far from drunk,' said Jacques. 'He is only reflecting bitterly that he must get a new pair of suspenders.'

  I could have killed Jacques. Yet it was only with difficulty that I kept myself from laughing. I made a face to signify to Giovanni that the old man was making a private joke, and he disappeared again. That time of evening had come when great batches of people were leaving and great batches were coming in. They would all encounte
r each other later anyway, in the last bar, all those, that is, unlucky enough to be searching still at such an advanced hour.

  I could not look at Jacques—which he knew. He stood beside me, srniling at nothing, humming a tune. There was nothing I could say. I did not dare to mention Hella. I could not even pretend to myself that I was sorry she was in Spain. I was glad. I was utterly, hopelessly, horribly glad. I knew I could do nothing whatever to stop the ferocious excitement which had burst in me like a storm. I could only drink, in the faint hope that the storm might thus spend itself without doing any more damage to my land. But I was glad. I was only sorry that Jacques had been a witness. He made me ashamed. I hated him because he had now seen all that he had waited, often scarcely hoping, so many months to see. We had, in effect, been playing a deadly game and he was the winner. He was the winner in spite of the fact that I had cheated to win.

  I wished, nevertheless, standing there at the bar, that I had been able to find in myself the force to turn and walk out—to have gone over to Montparnasse perhaps and picked up a girl. Any girl. I could not do it. I told myself all sorts of lies, standing there at the bar, but I could not move. And this was partly because I knew that it did not really matter anymore; it did not even matter if I never spoke to Giovanni again; for they had become visible, as visible as the wafers on the shirt of the flaming princess, they stormed all over me, my awakening, my insistent possibilities.

  That was how I met Giovanni. I think we connected the instant that we met. And remain connected still, in spite of our later séparation de corps, despite the fact that Giovanni will be rotting soon in unhallowed ground near Paris. Until I die there will be those moments, moments seeming to rise up out of the ground like Macbeth's witches, when his face will come before me, that face in all its changes, when the exact timbre of his voice and tricks of his speech will nearly burst my ears, when his smell will overpower my nostrils. Sometimes, in the days which are coming—God grant me the grace to live them—in the glare of the grey morning, sour-mouthed, eyelids raw and red, hair tangled and damp from my stormy sleep, facing, over coffee and cigarette smoke, last night's impenetrable, meaningless boy who will shortly rise and vanish like the smoke, I will see Giovanni again, as he was that night, so vivid, so winning, all of the light of that gloomy tunnel trapped around his head.